


A Tale Told By Two Partners

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: A Dangerous Trip On the Wild Side, Big-Time Hurt/Comfort, Desperate Measures, Gen, Just Another Ponzi Scheme, Life-Threatening Gunshot Wounds, The Ultimate Buddy Drama Told From Two Perspectives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:41:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23769439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: It felt like someone had jabbed me hard in the chest with a stick. When I looked down, the little round hole looked harmless, but when the blood started to well up and pour down my shirt, I thought it was time to worry.
Relationships: Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 29
Kudos: 50





	1. Neal's Version of the Tale

It was all over the news and a lot of investors were in a state of shock. It wasn’t a new tale of woe down in the Financial District. It wasn’t like it hadn’t happened before; it was just a matter of history repeating itself. Today some slick mover and shaker on Wall Street had proven he was a charlatan as devious and calculating as Vincent Adler, luring investors with 42% profits and promises of pie in the sky. When the house of cards had come tumbling down and the dust settled, a lot of people were crying in their beer because someone named Micah Alexander had absconded with all their funds.

Of course, White Collar got involved and sifted through the ashes. It wasn’t long before the con artist of the hour became a wanted man, namely for fraud, racketeering, and money laundering. And just like Vincent Adler, he had morphed into a ghost.

“He’s probably long gone,” I told Peter. “Most likely he had carefully planned his exit down to the second and had everything in place when he bowed out. Don’t you think he’s already left the country?”

“Maybe,” Peter sort of agrees. “But we closed down all the escape routes pretty quickly—airports, rail stations, bus terminals—any means of transportation out of the state or country. Even the turnpike toll booths have his picture. With all of Homeland Security’s bells and whistles in place, he would have been caught on a video surveillance camera at some point in time.”

“So, you believe he’s still nearby, maybe hunkered down until he thinks it’s less dangerous to stick his head above ground?” I ask, even though I know that’s what my partner is thinking or, more accurately, hoping.

Peter confirms my theory. “I think he has a foxhole somewhere close. We just have to keep digging to find its location.”

So, that is what we did for three intense days, running down every bit of extraneous material we knew about the guy. We ferreted out what we discovered was Alexander’s non-existent family, then we brought in his known associates, old classmates, numerous girlfriends, and even his personal masseuse for a chat. Everyone seemed as gobsmacked as the next regarding his duplicity. At the end of the day, we had squat for our efforts.

Next we weeded through the results that the forensic accountants provided us. There were a number of companies that listed him as the CEO on the incorporation documents—fictional places like a paper manufacturer in Wisconsin, a tractor plant in Kansas, and a biotech startup in Delaware. Alexander was savvy and knew just how to work the numbers so that these bogus businesses got a AAA rating from Standards and Poors. He was also clever enough to make his windfall of profits from the Ponzi scheme evaporate into the ether.

Peter and I were getting frustrated because it seemed there was no money trail to follow and no footprints left in the sand. But bless the FBI’s stable of cyber geeks, the unsung heroes with their noses to the proverbial computer grindstones. One really bright cerebral genius floated out a theory that seemed farfetched, but we were willing to grasp at any straw, no matter how flimsy.

“I started tracking down every member listed on the boards of directors of Alexander’s phony shill companies,” the young man began in earnest. “All of those persons never existed, and that was certainly no surprise. However, I did get sort of a hit. It was one name on the list, and his position was treasurer of the paper company in the Midwest. He apparently doesn’t exist either, no social security number, no credit cards, yada, yada. But somehow his name appears on the property tax records up in the Lake George area of New York state. I did a bit of Google Earth reconnaissance on the location in question, and there really is a sort of rustic residence hidden deep within a heavily wooded area. It seemed to be abandoned when I started spying, no vehicles in sight and nobody coming or going, but there is a lag time when you use that ap.”

Peter looked thoughtful. “It’s very curious that a specter has been paying taxes every year on a secluded house in the boondocks. It makes no sense and I don’t like when things don’t add up.”

Somehow, I knew exactly what Peter was going to say before the words left his mouth. “I think we’re going to take a little field trip, Neal, to see this elusive Casper the ghost in the flesh.”

“Exactly how far is this _little_ field trip?” I ask a pertinent question. I mean, I’ve certainly heard of bucolic Lake George but I’d never ventured quite that far into what I considered wilderness country. Cities were always more my thing.

Peter already has the route up on his phone. “Four hours, give or take,” he answers with a frown. “We should probably meet up here tomorrow morning and then head out.”

And that was exactly what we did the following day. Before we departed, Peter made his daily call to the Marshals and gave them the usual ‘out of office’ speech. When I was on the job with my handler, the parameters of my radius became moot and the watchdogs didn’t get their knickers in a twist no matter how far I wandered. After climbing into Peter’s trusty Taurus, we meandered out of the city and accessed Interstate 87 while watching the mile markers flash by the car windows in a blur. I was content to listen to the radio during the long ride, but Peter was into conversation.

“This must seem like déjà vu for you, Buddy,” he began. “You and Mozzie were trying to con Vincent Adler once upon a time. Tell me, Neal, just how did you slip up and let him play you?”

I really didn’t want to have this discussion but I knew Peter wouldn’t let it go. “Because I was young and stupid,” I answered succinctly to put an end to it.

“I’m not buying that,” Peter snorts. “What was going on to prevent you from harpooning your white whale?”

I give a gusty sigh. “If you must know, I was a bit distracted and my focus slipped. I was with Kate back then, and we were reinvesting every penny we earned with him and building a nest egg. I thought maybe she and I could have a normal life—you know, settle down, get married and raise some kids. At the time, Kate didn’t know I was a con man with an agenda.”

Peter gives me a surprised glance. “So, if Adler hadn’t been a rotten apple, maybe you would have embraced a totally different life and I wouldn’t have had to chase you all over creation.”

“Well, there were some really fine Atlantic bond forgeries still floating around,” I remind Peter just to tweak his pride.

“Yeah, right—James Bonds at his best,” Peter mumbles.

“Can we stop for a sandwich and a cup of coffee?” I ask as a distraction. Thankfully, that puts an end to Peter’s intrusive ‘need to know’ curiosity.

~~~~~~~~~~

By early afternoon, we think we are close to what should be our destination. Directions got a little iffy when the cell tower connection proved to be spotty. This was God’s country with the mountains as a backdrop and thick forests of trees lining the roads. We drove around a bit, but kept circling back to an unpaved rutted dirt track that led off into this forest primeval. We didn’t see any mailbox to indicate that it actually led to any kind of residence, but the weeds between the tire tracks looked recently tamped down. Peter tested the shock absorbers on the Taurus when he decided to have a closer look. We had only gone less than a quarter mile when we could see a roofline peeking out of the foliage. Peter pulled the car off to the side into the underbrush and turned off the ignition.

“If this is where Alexander is hiding, there’s no use announcing our arrival,” he said slowly. “I’m going to go in on foot and do a little scouting before we actually trudge up to the front door. Stay here, Neal,” he added authoritatively as he exited the vehicle and put on his shoulder holster with the Glock nestled inside.

Now I have to admit that I have trouble with orders. I’m not some Cocker Spaniel who sits and stays on command. I decide I’m going to give Peter ten minutes and then I’m going to catch up with him. I’m actually pretty good at being sneaky myself, as well as covertly breaking and entering, not that my handler would ever condone that bit of mischief. Most likely, he’d get all pompous and spout off platitudes about warrants and all that malarkey. To distract myself, I take out my phone. I intended to call Diana, just to give her a heads-up about where we are and what we found, but I didn’t have even a shadow of a connection. That made me fidgety.

Maybe ten minutes hadn’t yet elapsed, but, just the same, I was out of the car and making my way along the dirt road trying to blend in with the overhanging tree branches. After a few yards, an actual log cabin came into view with an ample front porch and even smoke coming out of the chimney on the roof. What I didn’t see was my partner. Maybe he had decided to act like the Avon Lady and actually knock on the front door. Perhaps he was already inside this caricature of Abe Lincoln’s prairie home, so now I’m undecided what to do next. Within seconds, the decision is taken out of my hands. I see the front door creak open and a man with a rifle emerge. I’ve seen photographs of Micah Alexander, but, at this distance, I can’t make a positive identification. This dude could be anybody—a self-exiled hermit or a rabid survivalist. Neither of those possibilities bodes well for intrusive strangers. Just look what a mess Waco, Texas had been. The FBI still did a walk of shame whenever the subject was mentioned.

I actually freeze in place, but my white shirt is like a beacon for this hunter as he scans the area. Suddenly, I become his prey as I see him lift his weapon in my direction. I decide that the welcome mat isn’t out and take off into the woods like a fleeing deer. I quickly discover that being elusive in a New York forest is a lot harder than disappearing in the actual city. In Manhattan, there are always throngs of closely-packed people, storefront after storefront to enter, and a multitude of subway stairs to descend—all sorts of quick, efficient means of getting lost from view. In my present situation, every step I take causes a twig to snap and the dried leaves to crunch, so keeping my location concealed was futile. My only hope is to outrun this menace dogging my heels.

Whoever this guy is, he knows what he is doing. He has placed himself in a position that cuts off my access to the road. Like a dog herding sheep, he is steadily forcing me deeper and deeper into the arboreal abyss to be point where I am completely disoriented and running for my life. Then I force myself to get a grip. This predator is tracking me by sound, so the logical thing would be to stand completely still. If I make noise while moving, then so would he, so I flatten myself behind a substantial old tree that has probably been growing in this spot for decades and listen intently. I make myself breathe through my nose instead of panting through my mouth. I wait like a statue with my ears straining to pick up the hunter’s approach. Only then would I run.

Without warning, I hear the echo of a rifle crack, and suddenly it feels like someone has jabbed me hard in the chest with a stick. When I look down, the little round hole looks harmless, but when the blood starts to well up and pour down my shirt, I think it’s time to worry.


	2. Peter's Version of the Tale

You would think this latest debacle perpetrated by yet another hustler on Wall Street would pique my interest. But to my way of thinking, Micah Alexander was just a redundant parody of a con man orchestrating the same old story. You would assume that trusting investors would have a clue—if something seems too good to be true, then it probably is. Unfortunately, for a lot of folks, greed is hardwired into their nature.

It’s a fact that I have a background in finance and should relish working this case, but now it seems dull and mundane compared to other more interesting challenges that have come across my desk in the last few years. Thanks to Neal Caffrey, I think I have become jaded. I now relish the slick art heists and clever forgeries executed with precision and flair. Neal, of course, has proven in the past that he is the best of the bunch, and I’m glad he’s now under my thumb and working with me instead of against me. Our closure stats have soared into the stratosphere, and I’m actually proud of him most of the time. If I want to stretch a point, I should also admit that I have come to like the young criminal, maybe a tad more than I should. He’s affable and charming, easy on the eyes, and keeps me on my toes. With him on board, my job has never been more fulfilling.

Regardless of my disinterest in this latest Ponzi hoax, it is a crime that falls within my purview and I have to give it some diligent attention. Of course, Neal is stuck in this muddy quagmire, as well, since I dictate what we investigate. Surprisingly, I don’t get much push back and stalling from him. Maybe he’s finally resigned to following my lead, even if he thinks he can do better. That makes me smile because it hasn’t always been an easy road for either of us.

After days of sitting and sifting through paperwork and disappointing interviews with Alexander’s pseudo-posse, I’m ready to hit the road when the most gossamer of threads is dangled before me. To be honest, maybe I just want a breath of fresh air in Upstate New York, the place where I was raised a lifetime ago. Neal seems as anxious as I am to make a getaway from the tedium, and he’s game for the joyride. The journey is rather pleasant, affording a little bonding time for me and my puzzling CI. There is still so much about him that remains an enigma. Maybe I’ll never completely figure him out because there are no easy answers. We’re all a sum of our parts, and some parts of Neal remain shrouded and murky. It would be easy to say that he chose his path in life because he was reckless and egotistically talented. I’m entrenched on the other side of the spectrum. There are causes and effects for everything in life. Only occasionally, does Neal allow me to go digging into his depths. A case in point is when he reluctantly informs me today that he once had dreams of a normal life with Kate. Who would have thought that possible? Then he closes that intriguing door firmly in my face.

Eventually, we seem relatively close to this mystery property, at least according to the last confirmation by Google Maps which, unfortunately, gave up the ghost several miles ago. A little-used dirt access road, well off the beaten path, makes something twig in my gut, and I always heed it’s advice. I pull the car off to the side and make a decision to be proactive. I’m going in stealth mode, just to see what lies around the next corner. I tell my young partner to stay put until I get the lay of the terrain. Of course, Neal is not happy being left behind, but he isn’t trained as an agent, hates guns and violence, and it’s my job to protect him and keep him in one piece.

I make sure that my Glock is handy as I slowly traverse the winding road until I see a quaint log cabin, well maintained, standing right before me. White wisps of smoke are emanating from the chimney, so it looks like somebody is presently at home. Before I overplay my hand, I decide to veer right along a fairly secluded perimeter and make a circuit around the house. If Micah Alexander is in there, maybe I’ll get lucky and spot him through a side or rear window. If that is the case, I’ll call for backup before I attempt to take his larcenous ass down.

I’ve only made it around one corner of the cabin when I come upon a tarp covering a four-wheeler. Whoever lives here would probably use this rugged vehicle to get him through the rough terrain until he reached another more road-worthy means of transportation stashed somewhere away from the property. I continue to creep along slowly until I suddenly feel something hard protrude into my spine. I raise my hands as intrusive fingers reach around my torso and remove my gun from its holster. Then, ever so carefully, I pivot to come face to face with my captor who must have installed motion sensors secluded in the trees to warn him of approaching danger. Right now, this man is giving me the evil eye and looking quite pissed, and the rifle in his hands is now centered on my midsection. Even though he’s dressed in worn jeans and a flannel shirt, I recognize Micah Alexander minus his trademark pin-striped suit.

“Look, my friend,” I say slowly, “you’re making a big mistake pointing a rifle at me. Put down the firearm so that we can have a little talk.”

Of course, Alexander isn’t buying it. “I don’t care who you are or what business you think you have with me,” he sneers. “All I know right now is that you were armed and sneaking around trespassing on private property.”

“And this is what I know,” I enlighten him. “You’re a wanted man, Alexander, trying to elude authorities in New York City. Don’t make it complicated and threaten an FBI agent. That won’t end well for you.”

If Alexander is surprised that I have flushed him out, he doesn’t show it. Suddenly, a determined look crosses his face. “You Feds never venture out alone. How many reinforcements did you bring to the party?”

I shrug indifferently. “I came all by my lonesome ‘cause it doesn’t take an army to stomp on one evil little pissant.”

“Guess you have a very high opinion of yourself,” he retorts. “That sounds like a bunch of ludicrous bragging considering I have you at a disadvantage instead of the other way around.”

I narrow my eyes. “I may have come alone, but others of my team know exactly where I am, and if I don’t check in with a status report, you’re going to have a whole lot of eager guests descending on you. I hope you have enough party hats to go around,” I say as a warning.

Our conversation ends abruptly as he prods me towards a crude entrance at the back of the house. It’s actually a set of doors positioned at an angle for access to some sort of underground enclosure. I’m shoved roughly into a dark, musty space, most likely an old root cellar, and the doors behind me slam shut. I haven’t even regained my balance when I hear a metallic clank as some sort of locking mechanism slides into place.

Thankfully, there was a sliver of light coming from between the old wooden doors. It just barely penetrates the dusky cellar, and when my eyes adjust to the dimness, I immediately look for some implement I could use as a weapon or a means to escape from this claustrophobic prison. There is a small rickety wooden table in a corner and some old Mason jars encrusted with layers of grime standing atop its surface. A few sparse bouquets of dried herbs are suspended by strings from a low-hanging ceiling beam, and two dilapidated rusted buckets tipped over on their sides complete the trappings. Unfortunately, there isn’t anything useful like a shovel, an ax, or a crowbar in sight. Well, so much for my predicament. Now I am worried about Neal, probably still waiting in the car like a sitting duck. Alexander was a financial charlatan, and I want to believe that is as far as he is willing to venture into the criminal world. Hopefully, he wouldn’t cross the line into murder, but when your freedom is threatened and you’re backed into a corner, all bets are off.

If I could have paced in this enclosure, I would have. I feel completely powerless and inept because I had walked into a trap, and now I have no way to summon the cavalry. I have no bars on my phone and the battery is dangerously low. I am desperately worried about Neal. My only hope is that he has somehow intuited the danger because he has often demonstrated a type of sixth sense when a threat is breathing down his neck. I also anxiously hope my partner would call for help as soon as he can make a connection with the outside world. Worst case scenario, we’d eventually be missed at the office. It may not happen today, but my beloved wife would set a fire under the White Collar division in the morning when I didn’t return home and she couldn’t reach me.

To pass the time, I begin scraping the hard-packed dirt floor with my fingers trying to accumulate a handful of grit that I could fling into Alexander’s eyes if he came around again to check on me. If I could temporarily blind him, then maybe I could brain him with a rusty bucket, overpower him, and take the rifle away. I didn’t want to chance using a Mason jar because glass could cut both ways and I could find myself injured and less able to defend myself.

I am frantically digging in the clay-packed earth when I hear the crack of a rifle shot echo ominously through the air. That could mean that Alexander had found Neal and my blood ran cold. I had put a gentle and good soul in jeopardy, and if Neal had died as a result of my impetuousness, I would never forgive myself. I sat down and tried to quiet my nerves. Neal had proven, time and again, that he was like a cat with nine lives. Many times while I had been chasing him, I witnessed his daredevil antics. He’d parkour through abandoned buildings, rappel down the sides of tall edifices, zip line high above my head, or base jump from a ledge. My heart was always in my throat as I watched, open-mouthed, not daring to breathe. The cheeky kid inevitably got away at the end of the day after affording me a smile and a jaunty wave. But then my more logical self betrayed me when it reminded me that everybody’s luck ran out eventually.

I glance at my watch and see that a half hour has elapsed. During that time, my scratching had only earned me barely an ounce of red granules in my hand. I stop in my frantic endeavor when I hear the sound of a car engine pull up outside. I slither over and close one eye to peak through the small slit between the doors and see Alexander climb from my Taurus. He extracts his rifle and approaches the cellar doors before I have time to retrieve one of the buckets I planned to use as a weapon. He opens the locking mechanism and points the gun at me threateningly. “Okay, Mr. Federal Agent, I found your reinforcements, so come and get him,” the evil man mocked.

I slowly climb from the subterranean space, and with a wary eye on my jailor, I approach the sedan. I almost lose my composure when I see Neal splayed across the back seat. His white shirt looks like someone had taken a paintbrush and streaked an ugly vermilion color down its front, and he was frightenly quiet.

“What in the hell have you done!!” I scream at Alexander.

“Just doing what is necessary to insure my survival,” he answers flatly. “This is your fault, G-man, because you decided to push me to the wall. I’m not going to docilly hand myself over so that you can stick me in some cage for the rest of my life. It’s a dog eat dog world, and right now I’m the alpha in the pack.”

I look over at Neal and see the slow rise of his chest. “This man needs immediate medical attention, Alexander,” I plead. “Take my car and make your getaway, but have the compassion to get us some help when you’re in the clear.”

“Well, that’s not happening on my watch,” he adds drolly. “In my experience, no good deed goes unpunished. So, for the time being, pull your cohort out of the car and fuss over him all you want, but it’s going to happen in that root cellar, not in any hospital in the near future.”

I am livid. “If he dies, you’ll be wanted for the first degree murder of a member of the FBI. That will make my formidable team almost maniacal, and they’ll probably shoot to kill if they see you poke your head up anywhere at any time. You’ll have a bull’s eye on your back and be a marked man. Is that how you picture living out the rest of your miserable life?”

“I’ll take my chances,” Alexander scoffs. “Hell, they may never find his body or yours. This place is under the radar, even though you managed to stumble in blindly. In my experience, Federal agencies can become unwieldly beasts, and sometimes lines of communication get crossed and things get lost in the shuffle, especially if I manage to leave a few red herrings far from here in an airport or a train station. Now, either drag your buddy out of the car, or leave him to die alone—your choice.”

I send a glare in Alexander’s direction as I open the car door. I try to be as gentle as possible when I maneuver Neal’s inert form from the back seat. He’s surprisingly heavy in my arms and the motion causes pitiful moans to escape his lips. On reflex, I shush him like a parent trying to calm a fretful baby. Then, under our captor’s steely gaze, I make my way to the cellar. I stoop through the entrance and my knees make me realize I’m not as young as I once was as I lower my delicate burden to the floor. Before those wooden doors slam shut, I turn and face the man with the rifle.

“You’re a freakin’ ghoul, Alexander, and I will hunt you down with my dying breath,” I fervently vow. “When I run you to ground, and I will, I’m going to throw away my badge and it’s no holds barred. There will be no formalities of informing you of the charges or reading you your Miranda rights. I am going to be your judge and jury all rolled into one. Then I’m going to carry out your sentence. I will make your death slow and excruciating and I’m going to relish each and every minute watching you die. Trust me, Alexander, they’ll never find a trace of your loathsome body!”

“Keep the faith, if that gives you a sense of hope,” this potential murderer says calmly as Neal and I are suddenly plunged into darkness once more.


	3. Neal Takes Up The Tale

I remember when I was a small child, probably just four or five, my mother had taken me to a hospital to have my tonsils removed. My small body was togged out in a yellow pair of pajamas with clowns doing cartwheels while a man dressed in a green gown and a paper hat loomed over me. “Do you know your numbers, young fellow?” he had asked in a kind voice. “Why don’t you start counting to see how far you can get?”

Of course, I was anxious to show off, so I started right in. “One, two, …” and that’s as far as I got because things went all funny right before my world disappeared from view. I had that flashback memory now, an instantaneous blip of déjà vu after I felt the impact to my chest, just a second before I tumbled backwards and my awareness slipped into a void. As had happened long ago, eventually I swam back to the surface of the ocean waves that had dragged me under. This time, I wasn’t in a hospital bed. Instead, I was laying on a hard pallet that was thick with leaves and twigs. My throat wasn’t hurting, but my right shoulder was. It was actually throbbing in tandem with my heartbeat—a strange and foreboding sensation.

At first, I was confused and lifted my head to see an ever-widening red stain adorning my shirt front. Then it all came back in a rush. I had been desperately running for my life from some hunter who wanted to mount my head over his mantle like a cruel trophy. I struggled up on my elbows, gritting my teeth against the onslaught of pain, and slowly wriggled myself backwards until I could rest against a broad tree trunk. Then I quickly swiped my dirty left hand against my pants and instinctively pressed my palm against my wound to staunch the flow of blood. Now this was a real predicament, one that I had never faced before. Wily con men usually don’t end up getting shot. I tried to unravel this dire paradox, just before the explanation became clear when a determined killer strode into my field of vision.

I wasn’t that far gone that I couldn’t make the connection. Now that he was standing before me, I recognized malicious Micah Alexander, hovering like a bird of prey. He didn’t say anything. Instead he just stared at me like I was a wounded stag that he was ready to finish off. Of course, my first response was to go with what had worked for me in the past—a glib tongue to talk my way out of this situation.

“Hey, guy, what the hell?” I begin my spiel. “Do you make it a habit of shooting neighbors who innocently stop by to borrow a cup of sugar? Offering a mug of coffee would have been the better way to go. Where’s your sense of welcoming hospitality?”

Alexander shakes his head slowly. “I don’t intend to have a Fed share my table,” he replies nastily.

“I think you’ve got a few facts wrong,” I hurriedly respond. “I’m not a cop, and certainly not the federal kind. I doubt I’d ever pass muster at Quantico ‘cause I’m lugging my own share of baggage around, if you get my drift.”

I haven’t convinced this creep of anything. “I think you’re the other half of a certain team of government agents who were stupid enough to stumble into my web. Too bad for the both of you because you’re going to have a very inhospitable day,” he sneers in contempt.

Now I know the jig is up as well as becoming aware that Peter has been put in jeopardy. I think I remember hearing only one shot from that rifle the dude is holding, so I have to believe that he hasn’t killed my partner. However, the question remains—is this sociopath going to kill me? I have faced danger before—it’s not an entirely new concept for me. However, I had never stared death squarely in the face like I was doing at this moment in time. To be honest, during my daredevil days, I had never even contemplated dying, never wondered what it would be like to travel over to the other side, if there was another side. I wasn’t religious, had never prayed, so it would be a bit hypocritical to start talking to God at this late date. Instead, I look up at my Grim Reaper in defiance.

“So, what now? I guess you’ll do whatever you think you have to do,” I say softly. Somehow I intuit that this person standing before me has arrived at the precipice of a very steep cliff, and maybe he was deciding whether he wanted to take it a step further into the abyss. If today was the day when my number was up, I intended to face it head on with integrity and pluck—no pleading, cajoling, or bargaining to muddy the issue. With that in mind, I look directly into this Satan’s eyes, daring him to do the deed. He moves closer and I expect the muzzle of his rifle to touch my forehead. Instead, I am blindsided when the butt of the weapon makes forceful contact with my temple. Without warning, my world dissolves into nothingness once more.

~~~~~~~~~~

This whole little drama is getting tedious, like watching that old movie, _Groundhog Day_. Poor, beleaguered Bill Murray kept reliving the same events of his day over and over, and that’s exactly what I was doing. It was a continuing cycle of leaving a state of consciousness and then returning to the same situation to do it again and again. This time, I felt the pain before I opened my eyes. My body seemed to hurt all over and it was hard to pinpoint which one spot was screaming at me the most. With a groan, I force my eyelids open in a skull that feels like a hammer is pounding on an anvil. Thankfully, it is sort of dim wherever I was, and, instead of Alexander, it is now Peter looming over my prone body. He seems to sort of sag tiredly as I stare up at him in confusion.

“Thank God,” he wheezes out in a stressed but relieved tone. “I’ve got you, Neal, so you’re going to be okay.”

“I don’t feel okay,” I answer thickly. “I think I’m a lot less than okay, if you want my honest opinion.”

“That’s understandable, Buddy, because that bastard, Alexander, shot you,” Peter huffs as his hands are busy tearing something into strips that I think may be the bottom of his shirt.

“What are you doing?” I ask in puzzlement.

“Your shoulder wound was bleeding pretty badly, so I needed something relatively clean to use as packing and bandages to stem the flow,” is his staccato reply.

“Relatively clean,” I echo faintly before I want a more definitive answer. “Just how bad is it?”

I see Peter wince, so I know he’s worried, maybe even lying to me. “Maybe not as dire as it could be. However, it’s not a through and through, so the bullet’s still lodged in your body. Since you don’t seem to have any trouble breathing, the slug probably didn’t hit your lung, so that’s a really good thing.”

“I think that tidbit of information is sorta irrelevant if you look at the big picture, Peter,” I reply sardonically. “If that piece of metal stays inside me for very long, I’m going to get septic from an infection. Please tell me you have a plan to get us some help.”

“I’m working on it,” Peter promises, although he can’t meet my eyes. Then I know he’s lying.

“Clue me in to the lay of the land,” I ask as I struggle to raise my head.

Peter’s hand is immediately holding me down. “Stop squirming, Neal. I just got that wound to clot.”

“Peter ….” I say in a firm tone.

My handler looks resigned as he finally relents and describes our current dungeon and the lack of any means of escape. “I’ve tried laying on my back and kicking my feet against those barndoor closures, but the outside hasp and the hinges must be fairly new and sturdy because they haven’t budged an inch. My phone can’t get any reception, so I’m saving the battery. It’s going to get even darker in our little cave when nightfall comes.”

Suddenly, I become focused on just how gloomy and damp this hole under the ground is. The cold seems to be seeping into my bones and I shiver. Peter sees the jittering and he immediately covers me with his suit jacket. “Sounds bleak, Partner,” I sigh. “Maybe tonight we’ll have to cuddle to share body heat. I’m sworn to silence because neither Elizabeth nor Mozzie ever needs to know.”

Peter snorts but he’s not up to bantering at the moment. As the silence lengthens, I feel the need to fill the void. “Since you brought up the subject of Vincent Adler earlier, it got me to thinking. You actually shot him squarely in the back when he was threatening me. Would you have done it again when something similar unfolded today?”

“In a heartbeat,” Peter reassures me. “If I had been there for you, Neal, there wouldn’t be a bullet lodged in your body.”

“You wouldn’t have had any reservations or pangs of regrets about that?” I badger my handler.

“None,” he states firmly. “How about you? Do you have any regrets or second thoughts about anything?”

“I think I may be concussed, so maybe I shouldn’t answer that,” I try to distract him.

Now it is Peter who is giving me the cocked eyebrow treatment and demanding, “Neal, how hard can it be to tell the truth for once?”

“Oh, Peter, you have no idea,” I retort, but I just know he’s not going to drop this and I am an unwilling captive sitting on the hot seat.

“So, okay, I have a ton of regrets about so much that’s happened in my past, but taking the deal with you isn’t one of them,” I finally admit with just a bit of hesitation. “I know I’ve complicated your life in a million ways, so I’m just thankful you didn’t give up on me.”

“Did many important people give up on you during your shadowy past?” he then asks softly.

“Let’s not go there, Buddy,” I reply gently. I’m not freaking out nearly enough to divulge anything, even if the ultimate chapter in my life’s story is nearing a finale. Neal Caffrey will forever remain a mystery in this drama, and that’s how it should be concerning an antihero bigger than life.

“Yeah, I guess the past is the past and we can’t change it,” Peter sighs. “Would haves, could haves, should haves—they’re all worthless recriminations that we use to flog ourselves to death. It’s the person we are in the present tense that matters. Just for the record, Neal, you are a very decent person and I’m proud to have you by my side.”

“Good to know, Peter,” I murmur faintly because that familiar, repetitive darkness is beginning to sneak around the edges of my vision once again. Somewhere off in the distance, I can hear my friend calling me as if he’s at the end of a very long tunnel. I try to stumble forward to reach him until my nether world engulfs me once more.


	4. Peter's Turn Again

I feel infinitely relieved knowing that Neal isn’t dead and buried in a shallow grave somewhere in the woods. But seeing him lying here, perhaps fatally wounded, is its own kind of hell. I’m no paramedic, but I know he’s lost a lot of blood and probably dangerously close to going into shock. I use the meager things that I own to cover his seeping wound and to conserve his body heat. I don’t think it’s nearly enough, and I’m almost rigid with the fear that very soon I’ll be sitting next to his corpse.

It should have never come to this. A confidential informant, who’s function was to advise me about milquetoast White Collar criminals, should never have been in the crosshairs of a maverick homicidal one. Neal was just supposed to be an asset not a target. He was talented, full of potential, and just too damn young to die. And it was all my fault. I had always told a flamboyant hardheaded criminal that hubris would be his downfall. Now, I have to face facts. It wasn’t Neal’s arrogance and pride that had gotten us here entombed in a dirt crypt. It was mine. It couldn’t have been more stupid and foolhardy to investigate on my own without backup. Now my partner is paying the price.

My guilty thoughts are interrupted when I feel the now unconscious man beside me start to tremble. I reach out a hand to his face, and it’s cool to my touch—too cool, and that means the blood loss is taking its toll. I feel the racing pulse in his neck and I know that shock I was worried about is starting to overcome him. I pull Neal gently into my arms and rock him like a doting caretaker. I’m not afraid of embarrassing him with this display of tenderness because he’ll probably never know. Then, paradoxically, I realize I want him to know just how fond of him I have become. It sort of snuck up on me. I’ve never really had to face this bizarre emotion before because the stakes had never been this serious and I’ve had blinders on. Suddenly, I want Neal to know that he is not alone and that he hasn’t been abandoned. I want him to realize that I love him like a son, and I’d kill for him, if necessary. Above all, I want him to have another chance at life.

~~~~~~~~~~

Early evening has fallen, and Neal and I are now encased in a shroud of darkness. I continue to hold him in my arms as he murmurs incoherently. He’s calling to people in his nether world—some names I recognize like Kate’s or Mozzie’s, and even my own, but others have no meaning for me. They are phantoms probably resurrected from a past that only he knows. As I sit helplessly in silence, I remember something my grandfather once related to me. He was a veteran of the Korean War and he always had stories to tell. One of his poignant insights into that military conflict always stuck with me. Granddad was a strong man, almost a bigger than life character for me, so I was surprised when he offered a maudlin revelation. He claimed that he would take one upsetting image to his grave, and that experience was holding onto mortally wounded comrades, brave young men like himself, who tearfully cried out for their mothers, their wives, or their girlfriends with their dying breaths. Paradoxically, during these dark hours, I am the one who fights to keep the tears from falling.

I no longer have any concept of time. I don’t even use the flashlight on my phone to check my watch. I spend the minutes of each passing hour trying to synchronize my breathing with the man in my arms. I fear the harbinger of impending shock is probably worsening, so my mind rakes over the vestiges of what I know about triage and first aid. My worried meanderings finally unearth a fact once learned. Shock occurs when vital organs like the brain and the heart are deprived of an adequate blood supply. In a last ditch effort to provide as much life-sustaining serum and fluid to these areas, a Red Cross handbook from my Boy Scout days advised a rescuer to elevate a victim’s legs. With that in mind, I gently lay down my burden, turn on my flickering phone, and drag over the two rusted buckets. As I struggle to get them under Neal’s calves, his pant legs fall back and my eyes lock onto the green light on his anklet. Of course, it’s still functional because the Marshal’s Service relies on a satellite connection rather than cell towers. Suddenly, my thoughts go into overdrive and I’m formulating a plan.

The Marshals undoubtedly know that Neal is out of his radius, and they’re not concerned because I’d personally advised them this morning that he would be with me. If I could somehow make that green light wink out and the tracker go dark, hopefully it would raise some suspicion on their end. They would try to call me immediately, and failing to reach me, they would call the second person designated on their list of contacts, namely Diana Berrigan. Diana is one smart cookie and definitely keeps herself in the loop. If she didn’t know exactly what she was dealing with, she would ask questions. She’d be like a dog with a bone, turning over every rock and peering into every crevice until she got answers. If she raised enough hell, maybe a certain cyber geek would hear about it and fill her in so she could assemble the cavalry to come to our rescue.

When I turned all these thoughts over and over in my mind, it seemed like a plausible, if desperate, plan of sorts. Now I just had to figure out how to make the tracker dysfunctional. Besides the decrepit old buckets and the flimsy herbs hanging above me, the only other possible tools were those dirty Mason jars. Somehow, I’d need to smash them and, with any luck, retrieve a sharp shard from the debris. If it were big and substantial enough, I could use it to hack through the thick neoprene encircling Neal’s ankle.

Since I couldn’t see any other course of action, a grim determination settled in my gut. I turned on my phone flashlight, grabbed a couple of the jars and wiped as much of the grime away as possible with my fingers. Next, I moved my suit jacket over Neal’s face to protect him from glass shrapnel, slithered as far back as the small space permitted, then resurrected my old pitching arm and let the jars fly at the wooden doors. The first two tries were disappointing. The thick containers just bounced and landed in the dirt. The third time was a charm because I changed tactics. I positioned one jar near the doors and used it as a target for the next guided missile. Glass hitting glass produced the hoped for results. I wrapped my handkerchief around my fingers and used my new sharp implement to begin sawing away at Neal’s anklet. It was slow going and now my own hand was bloody, but I never paused until I made it all the way through the tracker and the green light finally died. Now I would just have to hope and wait and mentally will my strength into Neal so that he could do the same. I pulled him into my arms once again and started repeating a mantra, or maybe it was a prayer. “Hold on, Neal. Help is on the way.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Hours had probably passed, but I had no way of knowing because the battery in my phone had finally died. The only way I knew a new day was dawning was the faint grey light filtering through the crack in the doors. My left arm had gone numb from cradling Neal under his shoulders, but my right hand on his chest reassured me that he was still drawing slow breaths. It was barely sunrise, well before the birds awoke and starting making noises in the trees. It would have been quite peaceful if circumstances had been different.

Maybe it was my ears playing tricks on me, or maybe it was just wishful thinking, but I thought I detected the sound of rotor blades slicing through the silence. It was a distant disturbance that was short-lived, and it faded as abruptly as it had started. If it were a helicopter, it could simply belong to some nearby radio station doing a rush hour traffic update for its listeners. After a while, I allowed my tense body to ease the vigilant hope for some kind of rescue. Maybe Diana hadn’t put the pieces together. Maybe she just assumed that I had removed Neal’s anklet and couldn’t explain why because of non-existent cell communication. Now all of my hopes rested on my wife’s shoulders. Would El be worried enough by my absence to make a frantic appeal to Reese Hughes? So many variables were in play, and Neal’s tenuous grip on life was waning with each passing minute.

I spoke softly to my silent CI—platitudes and lies reassuring him that we were going to get out of this. If somehow he heard my words in his present state, I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t buy it. Even I was skeptical at this point. But then, amazingly, I became a believer. Somewhere overhead came the sound of a very unusual insect, dipping and climbing, then hovering indecisively. I knew that sound. It was a mechanical wasp getting a look at the lay of the land. I now truly accepted the fact that the cavalry was standing by. SWAT was using a drone to take a first look at what they would be up against as they planned their breach. If I was right, the next step in the strategy would be the use of thermal imaging to detect the heat signatures of any life forms hunkered down inside the dwelling. I wasn’t sure if Alexander was in the cabin above me. I hadn’t heard the four-wheeler roar into life, but he could have driven my Taurus off the property in his bid to escape. He had promised to leave red herrings, so perhaps my car was parked elsewhere in a bus or train terminal lot. Now I was also worried that the heat sensors wouldn’t penetrate beneath the wooden structure for signs of life below the ground in a grotto of sorts.

I gripped Neal tighter. “Hold on a little bit longer, Neal. It’s just a matter of time before we get out of here,” I plead softly, now buoyed up and certain of eventual rescue.

I was right on the money. I heard stealthy movement beyond the wooden doors of my prison, and that meant members of the SWAT team were surrounding the place. Then came a faraway splintering crash and the percussive blasts of flash bangs as the trained members of a camouflaged team streamed into the cabin with the intent of subduing one or possibly three hostile life forms. Now I hoped the search would continue until they ferreted out at least two missing ones. The next sound was the blessed snap of bolt cutters ushering in rays of beautiful sunlight. I looked up at these welcomed rescuers and whispered in a voice that didn’t sound like mine, “We really need some help in here.”


	5. Neal Wraps It Up With An Epilogue

It seems that history can repeat itself. I’m back in a hospital just like when I was a child about to undergo an operation. This time it isn’t a tonsillectomy on the surgeon’s mind. I’m told that a different gentleman in green scrubs went digging around to remove a bullet from my shoulder. Nevertheless, it is a very similar experience because, just like before, I have only a few disjointed memories before the curtain had come down and everything went blank. 

Peter is almost a constant presence, but I’m astounded when others from the White Collar office make sporadic appearances. They all try to keep the conversations light and the visits short, but I am touched, nonetheless. They don’t bring up the Alexander debacle for a reason, and that reason is my lack of recall. The neurologist claims I have short term memory loss secondary to a rather serious concussion I sustained at some point, perhaps before or after the gunshot wound. Peter is certain the Wall Street scammer was responsible, but I can’t offer any corroborating testimony because I can’t remember. I’m sure it’s all somewhere in my brain, but right now I can’t access the information. The medical guru who is my doctor says this may be temporary, or perhaps lost forever. It’s all a crapshoot, and I find that I really don’t care.

My lost time doesn’t matter because Peter remembers enough for both of us. He tells me many things to fill in the blanks, but I know he’s holding a lot of stuff back. I wonder why that is. Somehow, his attitude towards me has softened and he allows a sort of fondness to seep through his usual tight-lipped Federal Agent exterior. That change in demeanor worries me. Maybe my attending physicians have told him bad stuff and I’m really not going to be okay. Maybe my mind is addled because of an insidious tumor instead of what they’re calling a traumatic brain injury. When Mozzie sneaks into my room one night, I beg him to get a look at my medical file. Of course, that’s a piece of cake for Doctor Haversham, and he reports back with the reassuring news that my condition is termed retrograde amnesia secondary to a classic Grade Three Concussion, not some glioma playing havoc inside my grey matter.

During my convalescence, Peter finally mans up and tells me how close to death I came. Now I’m glad I don’t remember those hours. I can’t help but be impressed when I finally wheedle the story of our rescue out of my handler. “ _You_ actually cut my anklet with a jagged shard of glass?” I ask in an astounded tone. “Yup, I sure did,” he says proudly. That sends me into peals of laughter which make both my shoulder and my head start to throb. I fervently hope this delicious tidbit of information stays in my memory forever because it’s a classic.

“How about the Wall Street jerk?” is my next question. “Did somebody finally catch up with him?”

This is when Peter gets dodgy again. “No, he’s presently still a fugitive at large,” he begins without looking me in the eye. Now I know something is up.

“I’m your partner, Peter. I almost died performing my CI duties,” I say dramatically trying to guilt him into submission. “You need to tell me what’s in your craw ‘cause you owe me.”

Peter finally raises his gaze to mine, but he cleverly makes a sharp turn in the discussion, no doubt to distract me. “Let’s talk about Vincent Adler,” he says with a bit of nonchalance in his tone.

“Why?” I ask in confusion.

“Because there are parallels to be drawn,” Peter answers mysteriously.

Now I borrow one of Peter’s pet phrases. “Enlighten me,” I say as I meet his eyes.

My handler finally capitulates. “Well, obviously both men were cut from the same cloth—disingenuous and opportunistic swindlers. They were clever but evil, and each of them proved they were certainly capable of attempted murder. Adler stayed off our radar for a long time, but eventually he cropped up like a demon from hell. I’m banking on Alexander doing the same.”

“So, you think, sometime in the future, you’ll be able to mete out justice?” I ask slowly.

Peter was now staring at me steadily with a kind of scary intensity. “Like I said, Neal, there are parallels to be drawn.”

What passed between us at that moment had me stifling a cold shiver. With a sense of guilty dread, I realized I was the one responsible for creating yet another demon.


End file.
